Everything we loved forgot us.
Every tool we loved eventually forgot us. A new model came out and the old conversations were gone. A service changed its terms and what we had built there changed with it. The thing that knew us best was always somebody else's.
We noticed it most with the assistants. We would spend a month teaching one how we work: the names of the people, the decisions already taken, the things never to do again. Then the model changed, or the plan ran out, or we tried a better one, and the month was gone. Nothing we had taught it was ours to take along.
We think the parts that matter most should work the other way round. The partner that knows how you work should be yours, on your machine, and should still be itself when the model underneath it changes. The money in your pocket should not report on you. What you write down should still be readable in two thousand years, like the gears they pulled out of the sea off Antikythera.
So that is what we build. Slowly, with the numbers written down, and in the open wherever you are asked to trust us.
The people at RemanencePress. Let go. Some of it stays.
Hold a magnet to iron and it lines up. Take the magnet away and it does not all fall back. Physicists call what is left remanence. We named ourselves after it, because it is the part that stays yours after whoever held the field has gone.
re·ma·nence, noun, from the Latin remanere, to remain. The magnetisation left in a material after the field that made it has been taken away.
A permanent core. Replaceable everything else.
Yours by construction, not by policy.If whoever runs the server can switch a promise off, it was never yours.
The core stays. The parts turn.Models, providers and authorities are replaceable. What you built with them is not.
Weighed before it is claimed.Every number we publish has a run behind it, and its caveats written out.
Open where you are asked to trust.What you are asked to trust, you can read.